Life is absurd. We just write it down.
The moment your phone hits 15%, you transform from a rational human being into a frantic energy conservationalist, suddenly treating every notification like it might be your last connection to civilization.
Your calendar has become a Tetris game where every block is a thirty-minute commitment to discuss things that could have been resolved by literally doing nothing. Yet here we all are, nodding thoughtfully while internally screaming.
You've opened the fridge seventeen times in the past hour. The contents haven't changed. The laws of physics remain intact. Yet here you are, door ajar, bathed in that cold fluorescent glow, convinced that maybe this time will be different.
You need to send a simple message. How hard could it be? Forty minutes later, you've written and deleted seventeen variations of the same sentence and you're still not sure if your tone is right.
You were going to be a gym person. You had the energy, the playlist, the $200 water bottle. Nine days later, you're not—but that gym bag in your car proves you're still trying.
You finish vacuuming. You stand in your living room. For one beautiful moment, everything is perfect. Then someone enters the kitchen. It's all over.
It started with a slightly scratchy throat at 9am. By noon you were canceling plans. By midnight you had WebMD open in four tabs and were seriously reconsidering your life choices. You're probably fine. Probably.
You had a craving. You had a perfectly good restaurant in mind. And then you opened Yelp, and forty-five minutes later you were reading a Reddit thread from 2018 about whether the new ownership had "ruined the vibe." The food was fine. It's always fine.
Nobody handed you a manual. Nobody sat you down on your first day and explained the sacred laws of the shared refrigerator. And yet somehow, violating them will absolutely end your career — or at least your relationship with Karen from Accounting.